Everything he never wanted
by Zeddy8
Summary: Sherlock has gotten everything he never wanted. He withstood loneliness and torture to keep his friends safe, and now even that can't protect his John. Set after TRF, but before season three. Sherlock is in being tortured for information, and when his identity is discovered, his captors use a new tactic to make the detective talk.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey fellow Sherlockians! So, I just gotta say, I'm Canadian, not british (I wish I were), and I didn't even try to use british terms and such, as I'm certain I'll butcher it. Also, I hope you guys like this! I plan to continue this, and I'm just posting this part to see what you guys think! Even if they're saying this story is terrible, I'd love a review or two, just so i can improve and to brighten my day! Thanks for reading!**

**Also, I, unfortunately, don't own any of the characters from Sherlock, the only character in this I do have any rights to is Andre.**

It had taken two weeks of torture for his captors had identified their prisoner. Two weeks if torture and Sherlock still hadn't revealed himself. It was after two weeks that one of his interrogators recognised him.

Next they wanted to know what he had been doing, sneaking into the Serbian base at midnight. With refusal to answer came more beatings.

He was bloody and broken, his hair grown wildly, and his build unhealthy thin. He had been hanging between the walls for ages, he couldn't remember the last time his arms hadn't felt the painful strain and tugging.

"Little detective, can you deduce what we brought you? It's a nice little gift..." A man whispered into the prisoners ear.

Sherlock shivered at the icy voice, what were they going to use next on him? His jumbled mind couldn't come up with anything that hadn't been used yet. He wished they would let him die, but they weren't that kind, not until he answered them, but if he did, he didn't know what would happen.

Now that they knew who he was, he wasn't sure why he kept silent. There was no one to save him. No one knew he was here. In fact, the only one who knew he was even alive was Molly and his captors.

"No guess, little detective? Well we had to bring this little toy from London."

This sparked Sherlock's interest, he tried to enter his mind palace, tried to guess at what could only be taken from London.

"We brought you a doctor, Mr Holmes." The joy could be heard in the man's tone.

_Doctor? Why a doct- no!_

Sherlock's breath began to pick up, surely he was wrong, his disheveled mind was just jumping to conclusions! It must be.

"Do you want to see the doctor, Sherlock? I don't think he's awake just yet, but I'm sure Mr Watson will be wake up soon."

Sherlocks head rose painfully from his chest and he groaned one word. Just this one word set His throat and fire and he started coughing. "John." The chest wracking coughing made his shoulders and back send him into a spasm of pain.

"Yes, detective boy, John."

The man left Sherlock to struggle as he tried to escape from his bonds with renewed energy. He was gasping and coughing as the metal of the cuffs around his wrist rubbed at his wrists until they bled.

His squirming and twisting reopened the sounds in his back, leaving a dark red puddle at his feet.

He wasn't thinking rationally as he gulped in frantic breaths. All he was thinking was that instinct need he had felt on Bart's room top. That need to save his friend. He'd never forgive himself if John was hurt.

_Never._

After what felt like forever, Sherlock's struggles stopped as gasped for any air he could get. The pain he was feeling was more than he could handle. The ground smelt terribly of his own blood. He shut his eyes as he tried to forget the pain. He tried to retreat to his mind palace but found he couldn't.

After finding out their mystery intruders name, it wasn't hard to discover his weak spot.

Some man named John Watson proved to have close association with the dead detective.

The man, Andre Hemde, couldn't explain why he wanted to know what this detective was up to so intently. But it troubled him that after the great detective was proved to be a fraud, and after he had died, that he would suddenly show up two years later in his base!

As fake as the detective may be, Andre had to admit he was the most stubborn man he'd net, except himself, of course.

This only made him more eager to break this unbreakable man. To prove he was the stronger one. To crush anyone who would defy him.

It didn't take long at all for his men to find this ex army Doctor. In a week he was pinpointed and his men were just waiting for the signal to abduct him.

Andre chose a time when he alone, at one of John's regular visits to the graveyard.

Andre had nearly gagged at the doctors inability to move on. People die, he should get used to it.

Now Andre sat in his office as he waited for the message telling him that his prisoner had awoken. He hasn't yet seen this John, but he trusted his men could find him with ease.

A small ding went of on his phone, and Andre grinned with cruel excitement.

He never slept, but it was in one of the dazes he sat in that Sherlock heard his door opening.

For the first week he had been in the cell, Sherlock had been sure to pay attention to who was who, he gave them stupid names in his mind, and kept minor notes on what they would do or say. By now they were all the same. Just worthless little puppets he couldn't keep track of.

His blurry, unfocused eyes noticed four forms enter the room. He was still breathing heavy, and his jaw was clenched in agony. The four forms in front of him swayed and spun around him, but he saw one person for sure.

A short, grey blonde being dragged by the shoulders by two people.

_John._

_How did they find him? How did they know?_

_How wouldn't they know? Now they'll kill him in front of you._

_Then Lestrade._

_And Mrs Hudson._

_Then you'll be alone. Again._

"Hey!" A violent fist crashed into Sherlock's stomach making him gag and bringing him back to the present.

"Don't ignore me."

His eyes were blinking rapidly as Sherlock tried to clear his vision and focus on something.

"Now, if you're paying attention, I'd like to ask you a question." He could hear the smirk in the man's tone.

Sherlock groaned quietly, recognising the sentence. This was the smoking man. The one who liked to put out his cigars on his back.

Sherlock lifted his head and cleared his gaze on the people before him. Handcuffed and bruised on the floor lay John. His eyes shut and mouth slightly ajar.

Next to him stood two guards and in front of him one of his very first torturers.

"As-" he couldn't finish his retort, which came out raspy and nearly silent, before he started coughing violently again. His chest burning with pain. The sudden on bringing of agony brought on that familiar inability to think, and fuzzy sight.

"What was that?" The guard taunted as he lit himself a cigar, letting the foul smell fill Sherlocks nose and lungs, and not helping with his coughing at all.

"Or should I just wait till our special guest wakes up?" He offered casually.

"No!" Sherlock let out as he coughed struggling to keep his breathing under control. He truly hadn't spoken at all in at least a week, and just doing anything more than breathing was killing him.

"No? Do you really think you have a say? Tell me why you were in the base. Tell me what you intended to do."

Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't, although he wasn't sure why not. He just felt like he wasn't supposed to.

"The drug should wear off soon."

"Sir, he's stirring."

"Wonderful. Stand him up."

A moment later Sherlock felt a rough hand forcefully lift his head up so it was facing John. "Open your eyes." He hissed with authority.

Sherlock hesitantly obeyed, painstakingly lifting his eyelids and focusing on John. It didn't seem real.

John was just barely opening his eyes, confusion and fear was shown on his face all too evidently.

He was being held up by the two guards so his face was about level with Sherlocks stooped form.

Sherlock watched his eyes for recognition, but found none, instead he saw the doctors instinct to help kick in as he blinked his eyes a few more times before speaking. "You have to let me help him, he's hurt!"

The man holding Sherlock's face laughed, "Doctor Watson, don't you know who this is? The great consulting fraud?" With each word of the title, the torturer twisted his lit cigarette further into the skin of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock let out a choked sound as he tried to twist his head away from his assaulter.

John's eyes widened in realization. He had too many emotions crowding his fave to all be named. Sherlock was dead! But this prisoner did slightly resemble him. But it wasn't possible.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead and not a fraud." Was all he said, unwavering confidence in the second part, but doubt in the first.

"His death was just one more lie on top of the rest of them." Said the man with almost sarcastic sympathy. "Come and examine him yourself."

Sherlock tried to yank his head out if the mans firm grasp, but his captors grip just tightened on his jaw.

The two guards surrounding John each took a step back after one removed the doctors handcuffs.

"And don't try anything funny. We won't hesitate to kill you both."

John took a wary step towards the broken body hanging before him. He didn't want this to be Sherlock. This dying man in front of him couldn't really be his best friend.

The doctor carefully removed the guards heavy grip off of Sherlocks face, and held it up in his own gentle hand instead.

Despite the bruises, blood and beard, and most if all the lost look in his eyes; John let out a painful gasp at the realization of the identity of the body he held in his hand.

John was then yanked back by the guards and Sherlocks head dropped effortlessly back onto his chest.

"Now doctor Watson, it does seem as though you don't know what Mr Holmes was doing here, but I do think you might want to persuade him to tell us, or it seems you might be put in an uncomfortable position."

John gulped and tried speaking, but it took a couple tries to not let all his tears fall into his words. "S-sherlock, yeah, Sherlock." He tried quietly.

Sherlock's lack of response earned a sucker punch to Johns stomach. The blow made John gasp and bend over before he straightened himself out and understanding the still tried again, significantly louder. "Sherlock, um, please."

Sherlock stayed unmoving and John was punched again, this time across the jaw.

John grunted and grit his teeth. "He won't answer me unless you let me care for him first. Let him down and let me care for him and you'll get better results!" He lashed out the seemingly head goon.

The man sneered but nodded at one if the guards to obey.

"And bring me some medical supplies!" John added.

"You have until tomorrow, and you're under video surveillance." The man spat on the ground in front if Sherlock before he turned on his heels and left. If this is what it took to get information for his boss, he'd go along with it.

Sherlock fell to the ground with an echoed thud. His tense muscles finally able to relax for the first time in weeks. The feeling was enough to sweep the detective into unconsciousness.

**Hope you enjoyed! Also, this is after the reichenbach fall, but before season 3! (Which is, by the way, utterly fantastic! Can't wait for his last vow!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n**

**Chapter two! I have no idea how long this one is, and a bit of a cliffhanger at the end, but I'm already working on the next chapter! Hope you guys enjoy!**

John waited until they had left before he kicked into Doctor mode. As soon as the door shut, John rolled Sherlock onto his back so his face was no longer pressed into the ground. His nose was bleeding from the way he had landed, but that was the least of the good doctors concern. His medical supplies hadn't arrived yet, but he could still get started.

He started by examining his best friends back, the worstvof all of his injuries. His shoulder blades were protruding from his back more than his cheek bones.

There were week old injuries coupled with brand new ones and some old ones that had reopened. The door opened and John was given a medical kit, a bucket of water, and a cloth.

John wasted no time using the rag to carefully clean Sherlocks filthy back. Soon the water was murky red as the bloody cloth was continually washed in it.

John couldn't decide if it were worse seeing his friends back clean or not. With it clean, it did look better, but it also made it much easier to see all of the various sounds that littered his flesh.

John opened his medical bag to see what it held. He was relieved to find it was a through kit he had been given.

He pulled out a pair if gloves and an antiseptic cloth to finish his job of cleaning the injuries.

John pulled out a needle to stitch up one particularly deep cut that curved around the shoulder blade. The doctor shuddered at the thought of how painful it must have felt. He wished he could give his friend some pain killers, but they were all pills, and Sherlock was still unconscious.

As John carefully stitched close the wound, he just started to wonder how exactly this man was still alive. He had seen the body!

"Oh Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into?" He mumbled to his friend as he tenderly tied of the stitch.

John sighed and shook his head. He needed clean water to tend to the rest of Sherlock, but he didn't know where he'd get it. Finally he resorted to standing up, feeling like a complete tool, as he asked for more water and a bit of bread for when Sherlock woke up.

He waited for only a minute before his request was fullfilked and the door crawled open. The newcomer was a young man; he held anotger bucket if water in one hand, and a small box in the other.

" Popravite ga, hoćeš li?" The Mab whispered as he placed both containers next to the doctors.

John had no idea what the Serbian said, but the boys tone had implied something friendly.

In the box was a green plastic cup, several crackers, and a clean white sheet.

John smiled a bit at the sheet, at least now he could have a cleaner work place than the blood stained muddy ground.

John got up to find Hus eyes a bit achy from crouching so long and started to worry he was running out if time.

He quickly later out the sheet then contemplated how he would move the bigger man.

Finally he just trued to heave him up bridal style. He was astonished at how light his friend was, and how saggy his skin was when he pick him up.

He lay him down on his back on the sheet.

Seeing Sherlocks face was worse than anything else John had ever seen and a sudden wave of nausea overtook him and he had to shut his eyes to keep his dinner in.

The detectives face was lake and sunken. Many bruises and split skin littered his face, his left eye was black and swollen. His face was cloaked in a matted beard that matched the rest of his hair.

John sucked in a shaky breath and knelt down to clean his friends chest and face.

The first thing that drew his attention was the many small burbs that formed a cresent along Sherlock's collar bone. John furrowed his brows at the burns and shook his head. These were terrible.

John could feel weariness draining him as he finished cleaning the last of Sherlocks injury's. He seemed to have at least a couple broken ribs that John had bandaged, and the doctor had bandaged all of the bug cuts and covered the burbs with creme.

Now that he had done all he could, he just waited for Sherlock to wake up. Then he'd try to make him eat something, drink some water, and swallow a few painkillers.

John honestly hadn't intended to fall asleep, but he did.

It was Sherlock strangles groan that woke John from his light sleep. His eyes snapped open and met the narrow eyes if Sherlock.

"Jo-" he coughed violently, sending his fragile body into pain.

"Shhh, Sherlock." John grabbed the cup of water in one hand and used the other to prop Sherlock's head on his knee. He gently poured some water down the detectives throat.

Sherlock started choking on the water at first, but after a few minutes he drank up drop John gave him. While he was drinking, John snuck three acematophin pills into his friends mouth.

"John," Sherlock gasped, his throat burned but he had missed his blogger more than he cared to admit.

"Shhh, Sherlock, just rest, okay?" John whispered with obvious worry.

"You need to." A few heavy breaths, "Leave."

John sighed as he ran his fingers through his friends hair, "We both need to go, I know. I don't even know why I'm here, I-Sherlock, it doesnt-" his voice cracked. "Yeah, you're not dead. Why aren't you dead, I mean, yeah."

Sherlock shut his eyes and licked his lips. "I-John, it's a long story..."

John sighed and bit Hus lip nervously, he couldn't help but feel angry. For two years he had fekt more empty than he ever did before, but he couldn't bring himself to let any if his feelings out on Sherlock, as the detective was hurting so bad.

"I know you're angry. I can see by the state of your clothes you've been upset, and now the way your looking at me-"

Sherlock didn't get to finish his deductions before John interrupted, "Shut up you git; yeah I'm right pissed off, but it doesn't mean I hate you."

Sherlock smiled a bit and winked at John before he painfully sat up, wincing at the pain in his back and armpits.

"Careful! I don't want to stitch you back up!" John scolded before he let out an airy breath through his nose and shook his head.

"What?" Sherlock demanded as he scrutinized John, but his mind just wasn't working quick enough.

"It's just, um, thus. Yeah, bit strange. I mean, you're dead!" John couldn't get the thought out his head.

Sherlock sighed and looked down at his now folded up knees. "I- I'm trying to apologize, and I know it was terrible."

"Why wouldn't you just tell me? I mean, I was in your way or whatever, I'd back off, I wouldn't even tell anyone; but all I needed was one quick text."

Sherlock looked back up at his friend, taking the risk of making eye contact. He felt terrible, even if it didn't show, when saw the pain and the anger in John's eyes. "I couldn't. I was almost ready to come back. I swear, but I didn't plan on getting caught, either."

"Tell me later, will you? I think we have better grab a wink before they come back."

Sherlock frowned, coming back? Crap. He hadn't really thought of that concept.

John's eyes darted to Sherlocks chest which was now rising and falling at a faster pace than previously.

"Calm down Sherlock. Just try to sleep. Please." John carefully helped ease Sherlock onto his back. He then lay himself down next to the detective.

"You're supposed to be safe. It was all so you'd be safe." Sherlock croaked painfully. "Promise you'll be safe." The detectives tone was on the verge of begging.

"Promise. Now sleep you git."

it was the excessive banging that woke John from his slumber initially, then the rough grip that, with a sharp tug, lifted John up by his shirt collar. Had he not been in the military, he may have needed a second to wake up; but by now he was trained with having to be awake in an instance. He shrugged the burly hand off of himself and narrowed his eyes at the guard who looked at least as stupid as Anderson. No, this guard was worse. At least Anderson had been right about one thing; his absurd theories of Sherlock not being dead were right.

Speaking of Sherlock; John looked over at his friend to see he was also being hoisted to his feet. Only Sherlock was injured and not really awake as he frantically tried to shake loose the hand that held him up by his hair. The detective tried desperately to place his feet to relive the intense pain plaguing his scalp.

"Hey! He's inju-" a heavy hand was clamped firmly on Johns mouth before he could finish. John quickly shut his mouth and pulled in his lips, having no desire to get whatever was all over this guards filthy hands in his own mouth.

in through the door came two more people, one who was clearly a guard, and another who seemed to scrawny and old to be one. The new guard went and held Sherlock up by one arm while the other guard let go of his hair and now held him by his empty arm.

John could see the pain in the detectives face from once again being held by his arms. John also knew that at least some of the wounds in his back would have once again opened, and the doctor could only hope his stitches had held.

"Let him speak." The thin man ordered. With the disgusting hand romeved form his face, John spat on the ground, just to be sure any traces of the man were gone. While he wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve he turned so he could once again see the man who seemed to be in charge.

He was Definetly much better groomed than the other Serbians he had seen so far. His black hair was cut in a standard military taper and his face was cleanly shaven.

"Now, Doctor. No pleasantries now. The fact if the matter is the detective here doesn't seem to like answering; and most Unfortunatly for you, you most certainly don't have the answers we're looking for; although do feel free to cut in if you do. Boys, sieze him." Both of the guards holding Sherlock dropped him heavily to the ground, letting his face plant onto the floor. A small groan came form the broken form on the floor.

John lunged down to check on Sherlock but was caught by the guards and held up in the same way Sherlock had been, my with more force. John gave his left shoulder a sharp yank and tore it from his captors grip. With his empty arm he swung his elbow as hard as could against the stomach of the man who previosly held his arm.

The guard let out a fluent stream of curses in Serbian as he fell down to his knees. A swift kick to the back of his other captors knees sent him toppling over and Johns swiftly turned around to feel all hope of a sudden escape fade at the sight of the gun barrel pointed not at him but directly at Sherlocks quivering body.

The detective was in his hands and knees; shaking from the mere effort of holding himself up.

"Any more heroic, and hopeless, antics you're planning on playing out? Or can we please continue?" The scrawny man asked with a taunting cock of his head.

John had to swallow down the retorts that were already forming in his head; with a gun pointed at Sherlock he couldn't risk anything. "The name's Andre, by the way, which one, though, you don't get to know." The man said as he nodded and shortly after John was nice again seized.

the hold on his arms was painfully tight and he could feel the bruises forming on his biceps.

"Now Mr Holmes, let's watch the show. You can call one intermission, whenever you like. And the show ends after the finale, when you're wiling to talk. Good plan?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock was hoisted up and propped up on Andre with his head being held up and in place by a hand on his neck, similiar to the way a parent would hold a young baby's neck.

"Now don't close those lovely eyes of yours." Andre whispered soothingly into Sherlocks ear, successfully causing a nervous shudder.

A curt nod signalled for the third guard to stand up.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n Another update, yay! Warning for violence, annoying captors, and like one mild swear word.**

**Disclaimer: I don't (yet) own Sherlock or John.**

The realization struck Sherlock without warning. His eyes widened incredibly and he gave a weak tug on his neck, hoping to break free.

Andre laughed and shook his head, "Mr Holmes, no need to struggle. You know the questions, an answer before we begin won't be turned down." The man hissed this into Sherlocks ear.

Sherlock's head was spinning, trying to identify something about his captor, if he was going to cone up with a lie, it had to be believable to this leader most of all.

The mans accent was definetly not Serbian, maybe a little bit, but he hadn't been living here for long. His English was perfect, so that proved he wasn't originally Serbian, or if he was, he hadn't grown up there.

He couldn't see straight, so he couldn't see what nationality he appeared to be, but Sherlock, basing his deductions from sound, decided that this Andre must have originally been British.

Just as Sherlock was going to deduce the mans background, he was brought from his mind palace by a stifled groan.

His eyes sharply tried to focus on what was going on before him. Everything was spinning and blurry, but he could still see a shorter blonde figure being held up as a second, or possibly third, strike from the very whip that had hit him bit into John's back. When had the doctors shirt been removed?

"No! St-" cough "op! Please!" His mangled mind couldn't think of a plausible lie to use; but he did have one coherent thought. He could not let his best-only friend get hurt. Not while he could stop it.

"Already? No fun in that." Andre whispered.

The gaurd wielding the leather tool raised a fuzzy brown eyebrow at his boss.

A shake of his head had the torturer bringing down the whip on its victim.

Sherlock gasped and struggled to break free. Despite the doctors best attempts to hide his pain, it was all to evident on his sweaty face.

"No-" another bout of coughing.

"Beg. Detective boy." Andre ordered, his voice raised and aimed into Sherlocks ear.

"Don't say anything, Sherlock. Yeah, I'm fine." John growled out, his words coming between pants and abrutly ending as the searing pain erupted on his back once again.

Pride no longer existed for the detective as he mumbled pleas to his tormentor. He couldn't turn his head, Andre's grip ensured that. He felt like vomiting simply from the pain he watched.

"You endure our weeks of interrogation, but it only takes a single minute when it comes to sentiment? You disappoint me, Sherlock." Andre snapped his fingers at the torturer holding the whip.

Both relief and dread coursed through John's thoughts as the pain halted. He took this pause as a chance to roll his shoulders and try to focus on anything but the pain.

In his time he had been beaten up and even shot; and although he didn't hurt as much now as he had when he was shot, this was a diffrent kind of a pain, and it was harder to deal with because of that.

Sherlock scowled down at the ground upon hearing these words.

"So tell me." Andre said, his abrupt sentence holding an impatient air to it.

Sherlock snorted, then instantly regretted it. The sarcastic snort only left his chapped nose and throat stinging. "You-" And once again he was coughing, pneumonia and dehydration, he deduced. "Really should-" he took a pained and slow breath in. "More specific." He made the decision to keep his sentences as short as possible, his throat already felt like it had split open, and he was certain his chest was imploding and exploding at the same time.

Andre narrowed his eyes at the detective, his mind trying to decide if the detective was being cheeky or honest.

"Detail, yeah? Alright, fine. What were you doing in my base; what information did you end up with, did you have anything to do with Adrijuana Kuzman?" Andre rolled the question of, ending with a rough squeeze on the back of Sherlock's neck.

While trying to writh his neck away from the uncomfortable grip, Sherlock tried to think of a lie, any at all, but his brain seemed to have slowed down and he felt absolutly usless. His only advantage being his mind, he was extremly vulnerable.

He simply could not answer these question honestly, the answer to any of his question would result in probable death, failure of his mission, and probably doom for anyone he knew.

"Need- needed to make a-" He coughed a few times and afterwards he didn't even try to finish, a cold sweat was running down his back and forehead, simply from the effort to keep him alive that his body was undergoing.

"Answer me!"

Sherlock desperately tried to speak, his usually full baritone was scratchy and hoarse, and so pained. "Needed work." He let out.

"So you infiltrated my base under the name of Adrijuana Kuzman, one of my soldiers who isn't you? What happened to the real Kuzman?"

"Found- dead- forest." The small voice was keeping his answers as brief and quick as he could.

Andre scoffed and rolled his eyes before saying, "You want me to believe that you, a legally dead detective, was looking for work and just happened upon a dead soldier?" The story was simply stupid.

John butt in at that moment, perhaps if he backed up the story, and explained the reasonable side to Sherlocks lie, they could get out. He couldn't help but mentally scold Sherlock for coming up with such a simple and unbelievable cover story.

"Well he damn well couldn't have come back to London to get a regular job! And if you know so much about him, you'll know he has no proper education and so where else do you think he'll work?" John asked with no found ferocity, only growing increasingly angry with every word leaving his mouth.

"Fair point," Andre started out calm, then he dropped Sherlock head, letting it fall to the ground without second thought. He rose up to his full height and with out warning threw his fist into the doctors abdomen. "BUT I DIDN'T ASK YOU."

Sherlock flinched at the yelling and forced his head up to watch as John glared without hiding his rage, at his tormentor.

"Jo- plea-" he took a strangled breath, "ease stop."

John's expression softened when he locked eyes with his labouring friend.

"Ground." Andre said emotionlessly with an airy wave of his hand. It didn't take the guards at all long to react to the order, and not long after John was being slammed against the ground onto his stomach and held down by both arms.

The wind knocked out of him, and his head pounding, John tilted his head up to he could see in front of himself and then felt thick fingers grasp onto his grey-blonde hair and held his head in place.

"Now Sherlock, be a big boy and use your words." Andre taunted with a high pitch tone.

Sherlock forced himself up so he was sitting. "John, he-" the burning pain in throat was proving to be too much. It consumed his thoughts and actions, leaving him holding his throat in pain.

"Don't feel like answer, cool with me. Mateja, go heat the fire and find a metal stick." Andre said nonchalantly, he smiled when he heard Sherlock desperately continue.

"He was right."

Andre laughed lightly and prodded Sherlock's head with his foot. "I'm sure he was, but I didn't ask Dr Watson, I asked you."

He propped his foot under Sherlocks chin and lifted it so the detective was face to face with John, with only a couple of feet between them.

Sherlock shut his eyes in frustration. "I- couldn go- London, needed job, but no one could know- who I was." The words were slurred, scratchy and quiet.

"Still a rubbish story. You can't really think I'd believe you would you." A curt laugh. "You were caught in the record room! Dead chaps trying to hold a job don't sneak of into record rooms."

Caught in a record room?

He didn't remember that.

Sherlock started his answer after a moments hesitation, "I needed to know more- about Kuzman. I need-ed to know more about- the." He had to stop to catch his breath, but almost wished he didn't, the neccesary act of breathing was overwhelmingly painful.

"So you wouldn't- fired." Sherlock finished, his whole body shaking and sweating from the effort of even staying alive. His vision darkening he felt sleep over coming him.

He hasn't notice being moved or kicked. Although his eyes stayed open, he wasn't aware of anything until the icy water met his face and he inhaled sharply in shock. When he was pulled out of the water, he was choking on the water he had inhaled and didn't get to clear his lungs before his head was shoved roughly back into the water.

His eyes shot open in panic, still coughing he got even more filthy, cold water in his lungs.

"Awake yet?" A giant man, clearly one of Andre's goons, snarled.

Sherlock nodded as he coughed up the water in his lungs.

"Master Andre says listen me you will. Sleep but and eat. Master Andre angered at sleeping while you be talked by him." Sherlock insitinctivly winced at the poor English. So this Andre fellow, he finally realized how unable to answer satisfactorily he was?

Good. Another night with John. He can help me develop my lie.

He was lost in his thoughts, as incoherent and jumbled as they were, and hadn't even realized he was back in his cell until a loud ringing noise filled the small damp room.

"Food and drink here." The Serbian man said and left. Sherlock groaned as he managed to roll himself to his stomach. Beside him was a metal bucket of water and a little blue plastic cup. There were also a couple of crackers and several pills.

_Painkillers!_

Sherlock thought with excitement as his shaky hand reached for the little pills. All caution out the door, he forced the first down his throat. He drank a couple if cups of water after that, then another pill.

He couldn't bring himself to eat a cracker, certain it would hurt to much.

After another glass of water he felt sudden waves of nausea. Still on his stomach he moved himself obti Hus elbows and turned his away from his food and water before he let the contents of his stomach leave his body and land on the concrete.

Had he been more aware if the situation, he would have realized that drinking so much water quickly would upset his stomach before he hurled all over the ground.

The cold sweats were starting up again and so he just lay down on the ground, his face turned away from the bile, until one of the several lanterns in the room burned down. He promised himself another try at the water and pills when the next lamp went out.

He had recited the periodic table of elements in his head nearly six times before the next lamp burnt out. He took two more pills and a half a glass of water before settling on his back.

It took one more burnt put lamp before the pain had reduced enough for him to analyze or properly think of the situation. Three burnt out lanterns before he realized his doctor was gone.

"John?!" He called out as loud as he could, which was hardly above a whisper.

He slowly got to his hands and knees to look around, only to find the cell empty except himself.

_No._

_Please no._

_Where's John?_

"An-Andre!" Sherlock croaked as he got to his knees, lifting up his arms.

"Yeeeees?" The Serbian commander dragged out in a singsong manner.

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded, using special care to not stutter. Effort that hurt, but not as much as speaking earlier had.

"John who?"

A sharp glare.

"Oh, Watson? We got rid of him, wasn't working well."

Shock clouded Sherlocks features as he proccesed what he had had just been told. The dread and grief hit him like an anvil, knocking him down so his ekbiws rested on the ground with his head in his hands.

**A/n No worries, it's not over yet! ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

I have no reasonable excuse for this. I am so sorry this took so long. I really need to get my crap together...

OoO

"Hello Mary." Lestrade greeted politely. They had met before, but only twice. "Where's John?" He furrowed his brows and put down his paperwork. He had never seen Mary without John, and her just showing up at his office was far from average.

Even John himself hadn't come to Scotland yard since the fall.

Mary's attempt to keep herself composed broke as the anxiety and stress became evident.

"I-I would like to make a missing person report." She said quietly.

Sherlock may call him stupid, but Lestrade never less caught on quickly and stood up, walking around his desk.

"How long?" He asked over his shoulder before shouting at Donovan to pull out a missing persons report.

"Twenty four hours. I've tried calling him, but his mobiles dead, and I've called everyone we know, and they haven't seen him either!" Mary had tears glistening in her eyes as she sat down at a seat across from Lestrade who was writing down all she said.

It didn't take long to finish filling out the sheet using the duo's collaborative knowledge on the missing person

"I just can't fathom what happened, he just went to the grave, like he does every Monday, and he never came back!"

"Its alright, Mary, stay calm and I'll get a search crew out as soon as possible, okay?" Lestrade promised before standing up, giving the woman a comforting side hug and handing off the report to Donovan.

The sergeants expression could have been called comical if the situation hadn't been so grim. "John Watson?" She asked incredulously. Earning her a 'shut up' glare from the DI.

"Like, Sherlock- John Watson? We haven't seen him since-" Donovan was interrupted by Lestrade.

"Please- Don't Donovan. Not now. Just put the report through, okay?" He gave her a small shake of his head.

Donovan caught on and shut her mouth firmly, giving Mary an apologetic smile.

Mary covered her face as she tried her best to compose herself, but it was just to much, and her tears leaked through her fingers.

Lestrade awkwardly cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around the girl.

"Hey, it's alright. We'll find him, I'm sure of it, so don't worry, okay?" He smiled a bit as he patted her back and stepped back. He kept himself composed, for the sake of Mary and the fact he was at work. But inside he was panicking. He had known John long enough to know he wasn't the type to run off.

Mary sniffled and nodded sadly. Lestrade led her into his office and told her to sit down in his chair.

"I'll go grab you a cuppa, you just relax, okay?" He left the office and the false, reassuring smile on his lips dropped and was replaced by furrowed brows and a frown.

Two years ago this would have made sense. Sherlock had- used to have plenty of enemies, and John was good leverage. But now that Sherlock had- passed on- what would anyone want with an ex-army doctor?

After pouring a bit of milk a putting in a pinch of sugar, the inspector brought back the tea to find Mary much more put together than she had been.

He gave her the tea and asked; "Feeling better? If you're good, I'm going to go make sure Donovan boosts his report to the front."

Mary nodded and gratefully took the tea. She wire a stoic expression, but her eyes were still red and her posture slouched.

Lestrade returned about a half hour later. Mary hadn't moved, but her tea was empty.

"Hey, so were assuming he was compromised, if he was," he quickly added after see the look of panic on the woman's face, "at the grave, or in the cab. Anyways, do you want to come with? You'll have to stay behind the tape, but better than sitting here, yeah?"

Mary nodded softly and gathered herself up to her feet.

OoO

Something had definitely gone on. But it wasn't the blood on the gravestone, nor the trampled grass occupying Lestrades mind. It was the grave itself.

He had been here twice before. First for the funeral, and then for a more personal visit a month afterwards.

He remembered the funeral clearly. He had known that Sherlock didn't have many friends. But the fact that is was just himself, Mycroft, John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and an elderly woman (she was introduced as the Holmes mother), had still surprised him.

And now he was back at the grave. Standing over the spot where the detective lay dead.

"Sir, are you alright?" Donovan asked, coming up behind the trembling inspector.

Lestrade took in a heavy breath and nodded, "Yeah, I just don't understand it. I mean getting shot on a case, even murdered by an enemy would have made more sense. Then we could avenge them, may even saved him. But he was his own enemy, and I never saw it!" He vented out quietly.

Donovan nodded slowly, she hasn't admitted it, but she had been weighed down in guilt for years. She knew that she must have played a part in making Sherlock at least consider suicide. He was freak, and she believed that, but she wasn't so sure she should have said he was as if it were a bad thing.

Lestrade sighed and with one last lingering glance at the name squarely printed on the marble stone, he turned away and started ordering people to run a dna test on the blood. "Oh, and someone find the CCTV camera footage!" He added loudly.

"Sir, the camera's in the entire area have been turned off."

Lestrade turned to the Sergeant who told him this, "How long have they been off?"

"For 49 hours."

"Crap." He swore down at the ground, "Possibility of witnesses?"

"Zero, detective inspector, no one but John comes to his grave." The elder, and supposedly last Holmes answered.

Lestrade jumped and then glared, "When the hell did you get here?"

"Calm down now, inspector. I was alerted as soon as my PA found that the police were investigating the cameras in this area." Mycroft answered coolly.

"Well unless you can help us figure out where John has gone, you're welcome to leave." Lestrade said ruefully before turning to go bother Anderson about the DNA results.

Mycroft sighed and followed the detective. In reality he didn't care what happened to John, but he did care about Sherlock, and chances were that the double disappearances were linked.

Mycroft had been keeping an eye on Sherlock, offering assistance when it could be provided, but three months ago he had completely lost both contact and information on his little brother.

However what concerned Mycroft most was that if Johns disappearance was linked, than someone knew who Sherlock really was, and that could be disastrous.

"Mycroft!" Mycroft looked up at the DI with a slightly startled expression, it seemed as if the DI had been calling him for awhile.

"If you're finally listening, I asked if you had any access to camera footage, even though its been deleted. No one turned off the cameras, they just deleted it." He motioned to a laptop showing all footage from 12 hours ago and on. Before that, however, was missing.

Mycroft shook his head, "No. If it has been deleted, it is deleted. However, what they didn't delete is footage from around the block." The Holmes boy explained as his long thin fingers typed in a security bypass code to show the film of camera footage from around the blocks.

"If you examine the road in front of this cemetery, you will observe that there was an oil leakage approximately two days ago, any car, including all of your police cruisers, that drive along this road will have evident oil on their tires. However, the longer the rubber sits in the oil, the more it will collect, therefore, zooming in on the camera footage, we should be able to identify the vehicles that parked in front of the cemetery."

Lestrade nodded as he peered over the shoulder of the elder Holmes. "There's something in the backseat of that one!" Lestrade jammed his finger at the image of an old Chevrolet Cavalier.

"Yes, thank you." Mycroft drawled sarcastically. "I noticed."

"It could be a large suitcase, or a bag of- uh- food or something." Anderson offered.

Both Mycroft and Lestrade eyed up Anderson with expressions that clearly asked him if he were stupid.

"Donovan, find the information on that license plate!"


	5. Chapter 5

A second part to the last chapter.

OoO

Andre watched the camera with a smile gracing his thin lips. The man sat back on his office chair leisurely, his legs crossed comfortably. He was content so long as there were no complications. And now there no longer were. If he got the information he needed form Mr Holmes, there was no way that Sebastian would hesitate in promoting him to second in command.

"Sir, what next sir?"

Andre shrugged, "Give him, say a day, and then break the good news, be sure you don't give it away until then. Let him bask in his grief for a day, let him convince himself it's his fault, then put him in shock with his little doctor mate." Andre couldn't keep his smile hidden at his pride for how clever he found himself.

"Yes, Sir."

"And don't feed him. Keep him weak and drowsy, if he doesn't seem out of it, drug him minimally." Andre added to his orders. Another 'yes, sir', and he was once again left alone. He quirked an amused brow at his prisoner who was trying to get up. His shaking arms collapsed and he again landed on the ground. Andre rolled his eyes and turned away from the camera, shuffling his deck of cards and setting up solitaire.

OoO

"Is he ready?"

"Yes sir, we had to drug him a bit, but he's alert enough to comprehend, but not clearly. Hardly moved since last report." The soldier dutifully reported.

Andre nodded slowly, "And Mr Watson?"

"He's fine sir. We have him restrained and ready to go. He is confused, and has lashed out verbally a few times, but he is ready to go."

Andre nodded once again and forced himself up from his chair. It wasn't often he got himself involved in his prisoners, but not only was Sherlock his ticket to power, but he saw the man as a challenge. And he could never resist a challenge.

"Let's try this out."

The door opened and Sherlock managed to turn his head to see the feet of his intruders. Six set of feet. Four sets were heavilly clad boots. Guards for sure. One pair were expensive looking brown loafers. Polished, spare time on the owners schedule. Hardly worn, either new, or the owner didn't walk around much. Probably Andre. What did he want?

The last pair of feet were barefoot and dirty. Sherlock couldn't identify the owner. He tried to tilt his head up to see who the mystery person was, but all that entered his line of sight was Andre. The evil man was squinting and grinning.

"You look tiiiired." Andre said, dragging out the 'I' in tired, his voice deeper than usual. _Trying to sound intimidating_. His mind supplied. Sherlock didn't care, though. Why should he care? If John were really gone, than he had no reason to fight. He would never answer Andre's questions. No, that would condemn his brother. But why should he try to survive this if John were not waiting for him at home?

Sherlock didn't make any noise in response, just shut his eyes. The detective felt callused fingers pull his eyes open, forcing his eyelids apart. "Don't be rude, Mr Holmes. I have a surprise for you. You want your present don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes were starting to feel dry, and he tried to blink, but Andre's fingers wouldn't allow it.

"I asked you a question. I expect an answer, or I could send your present away… Although I doubt you'd like that." Andre taunted. He removed his fingers from Sherlocks face, allowing them to close for a few seconds before the detective opened them himself.

He opened his mouth but couldn't speak. He was tired, worn out, and very dehydrated.

"Well? Do you want your present?"

Sherlock cleared his throat painfully before he shook his head. "Yes." He croaked. The last time he got a 'present' he bled to unconsciousness. Maybe they wouldn't stop him this time.

He found himself stragely okay with dying. Dying would be winning. Andre would never get his answers that way.

"No?" Andre shrugged, "Fine with me, I hear people are paying big cash for a John these days." He mumbled passively as he stepped to the side, allowing Sherlock to view John.

Despite the state of the Doctors feet, he was actually fairly clean and he was looking fairly well took care of. He had his brow furrowed in worry and concern. His hands were restrained behind his back.

"John?" Sherlock tried to get up frantically but his fatigue combined with the drugs pulsing through his views restrained him.

His gaze moved over to Andre who was watching with fascination. He narrowed his eyes and fierce determination he lunged at his captor. He tackled Andre at the knees, sending the older one flying backwards against the stone wall.


End file.
